Yeah, well, Deadlock's going to go the route of denial about what he said. It meant...uh, nothing.

It's the instinct of having had to groundfight his way to respect in the Decepticons. So he's straddling the jet's hips before he can consciously process it.

Until he can, and he realizes that his inner thighs are sliding over the sleek skirting panels that had squirmed so tantalizingly close to him last night at the dance. And his free hand's caught the jet's wrist, pinning it over his head, bringing their bodies close enough together that he can feel the soft fuzz of the jet's erratic EM field.

The smirk falters a bit, but he doesn't lose his grip on the scrap of paper.